


Thestrals

by sufferingtime



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, One Shot, Sad Newt, Thestrals, because the world needs one more newt and little girl obscurus fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sufferingtime/pseuds/sufferingtime
Summary: The only thing that could have lifted Newt's spirits after Sudan was the opportunity to discover a new species, and that opportunity arrives in the form of the ghostly, winged horses.  While it hurts to know that he gets to see the creatures because of the little girl, knowing that she has the chance to do something good for him and the world helps him while he gets to know the odd beasts.tl;dr - I was having a perfectly normal day until I remembered that Newt can see thestrals





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this after the next movie's out and everything is more fully explained about the events in Sudan, then this fic is definitely going to seem redundant. Hopefully you can enjoy it anyway.  
> Also, I gave the girl the name "Sarita" because it means "little princess", but I'm not 100% sure it's a name used in Sudan, so I'll probably replace it with a more fitting name later.

Newt took a break after his disastrous visit to Sudan. He couldn’t stop hearing the little girl in his head, begging for help, crying until she was overwhelmed by her Obscurus. Locked away, feared by her family, the rumor of a demon-possessed girl who killed anyone who angered her spreading across the countryside. The Muggles didn’t know that it was the Obscurus they truly needed to fear. They only knew that this girl, who’d been beaten and isolated for her strange behavior, had suddenly become a weapon capable of indescribable destruction.

He’d never forget her wide eyes when he’d spoken to her softly, the first kindness she’d heard since her mother had been driven away by the superstitious public for being a witch. His was the first hand that was offered with no intention to hurt her. She’d stared at that hand like she’d expected it to bite, and Newt’s heart had swelled with sadness and anger at what had been done to her at the hands of the people who should have loved her. It had been a matter of quick thinking and acting that stopped the Obscurus from hurting anyone else, but its final act was to take the life of its host. Newt held the little body close and gave her the gift of gentleness and love in her last few moments.

The experience took something from him that he couldn’t replace. He’d seen plenty of terrible things at the hands of humans, but it only fueled him to work harder and fight for the creatures no one took the time to understand. But he’d never seen people turn against one of their own like that. He’d never seen the death of a child from pure cruelty, and it left him hollow.

He went back home to England, settled in a small cottage that was rural enough to afford him the peace he needed to care for his creatures. For a few days, he retreated into his suitcase and spent all his time with his animals. Some of them seemed to sense that something was wrong, and he found comfort in their patience. The Thunderbird was especially somber, his deep sense of empathy and danger leading to a rudimentary understanding of what had happened. His female Graphorn refused to leave his side when he visited her, a low, constant humming in her throat showing that she felt his grief. The nesting Occamy hatched her eggs, and the babies gave him something to smile about and eventually led him to leave to buy supplies for them.

He Apparated to the closest wizarding village early on a misty morning. He found the market quickly, hoping to buy what he needed and get back to his house. Perhaps today he would really begin to look at the cottage he rented. He very rarely invested money in a building for a home. His suitcase had enough room for a magical zoo, so it could fit a small cot and kitchen for him. The only problem was that any curious passerby who saw the suitcase could cause quite a few problems, as Newt had learned early on after finding himself unexpectedly in the lost and found closet of a Muggle police station. If he planned to stay somewhere semi-permanently, he needed privacy.

He had just dropped his packages into his suitcase and was buckling it when he absently looked up and met the eyes of a very odd-looking creature. At first he thought it was dead, and was alarmed that someone would display a full, decomposed horse carcass so prominently. Then it moved its head, and he knew it had to be a magical creature. The black, boney equine was much too decrepit to simply be a badly neglected horse. It backed away and ruffled what Newt now recognized as wings.

He pointed to it and asked the vendor nearest to him, “I haven’t seen a creature quite like this before. Is he yours?”

The salesperson looked up. His eyes swept the area and came back to Newt. “Pardon?”

“This creature, here.” Newt took a step toward it and it trotted nervously away. “I don’t suppose it’s feral. Do you think the scent of the food cooking brought it this close to people?”

The man was staring at Newt like he wasn’t sure if he was trying to make a joke. “I’m sorry, sir?”

Newt was much too excited now to pay attention to the stir he was causing. “The black skeleton horse. It’s headed for the field back there, don’t you see?”

The salesperson shook his head and shared a look with the people who’d stopped to watch the spectacle: _this guy is crazy, huh?_ “Chasing thestrals, are you?” someone called from the back of the crowd, and there was a murmur of uneasy laughter in response.

Newt swiveled towards the voice. “Of course,” he gasped. Thestrals, considered to be myth — but why wouldn’t they be? Creatures of death, seen only by those who have witnessed the end of another’s life; they were the perfect animals to fall victim to tall tales. He seized his suitcase and Apparated away from the scene, but only a few hundred feet to the north. Behind the village was a long stretch of moor, where a little patch of wood sheltered a frozen pond and dried up grass. He pushed his way out of the bush he’d landed in and set his suitcase down. He hovered behind a thick oak trunk. The creature who’d been scared away from the marketplace was heading back toward the wood, and Newt tracked its progress. It disappeared into the trees, headed for the pond, and Newt followed. He stopped just short of a drop off into the hollow and crouched, peering over the rocks. An awed grin spread over his face as he took in the sight of a little family of thestrals, six or seven at most. A foal kicked at the ice on the surface of the water, its tiny wings unfurling each time it reared.

Newt had a system each time he discovered a new creature. If it didn’t pose a threat to nearby humans and seemed happy in its environment, he simply recorded all he could about it, interacted with it if possible, obtained samples of its waste, hair, scales, nails, or anything else he could, and let it live out its life peacefully. He only intervened if the animal was being hunted or starved, or drawing attention to itself. He couldn’t take in every single animal he saw, and likewise he couldn’t spend years on one species in one location when the whole world was waiting to show him its endless variety.

The thestrals seemed harmless, and even the most exaggerated accounts didn’t claim that they were aggressive. The fear that surrounded them was rooted in what they meant for the people who could see them, and as Newt watched the peaceful scene, he realize that the little girl had given him a gift of her own. He’d never have learned of the existence of these creatures if it hadn’t been for her passing, and he hoped that somehow she knew that she had had that one positive impact on the world. He sat at the top of the hollow for hours, hugging his suitcase and taking in the magnificence of the herd. The sun reached its peak in the sky, and he shook the stiffness out of his muscles. Moving quietly, he whispered a series of protective spells as he tread in a circle around the clearing. The sphere of magic would keep Muggles out, as well as deter wizards and deflect extreme weather. He wanted to keep them safe until he could come back.

He had a dream that night, composed of vivid memory. He was back in the filthy jail cell where they’d chained the little girl. The guards had warned him against going in, but he’d heard accounts of how she’d been raised by the father who was so adamant that she would not become her mother that he’d beaten her every night until the Obscurus rose and slaughtered everyone who lived within a mile radius. He remembered the scent of sick and waste and dirt, so thick it made his eyes water. _Lumos_ , he’d whispered, raising his wand and still almost missing the shape that was the girl. She’d started crying, maybe expecting punishment. She was saying something, over and over, that Newt couldn’t hear until he crouched by her side. _Run_ , she was whispering. _Get away_. A warning. She was terrified of hurting him. He hushed her, soothed her, tried everything he could to stop the tears, but he cried with her, his heart broken. The fear activated the Obscurus; in a flash of light, Newt was up against the wall, fighting for his life, with nothing but his suitcase, held open like a prayer, like using a piece of paper for a shield. But somehow it had worked; the Obscurus swooped into the case, he slammed it shut, and as it ricocheted around its new home, he ran back to the girl. Separated from the Obscurus, fading fast, she had stopped crying and was just staring at Newt in fright. He tried every spell he knew, gave her every antidote in his possession, but she had minutes only. Finally, he sat down, leaned against the wall, and pulled her into his lap. He rocked her slowly, his tears matting her hair, and felt her heart flutter against her fragile ribs. She shivered one last time, curled into him, and her tiny body went slack.

He woke with wet cheeks and stayed awake for the rest of the night. Once he’d shaken off the dream, the need to go back and check on the thestrals grew and grew until he threw back the covers, donned his dressing gown, and Apparated back to the clearing. He crept close enough to count the group. Five adults, clustered together against the cold, barely visible in the moonlight. He couldn’t find the foal, and he started to wonder if it had wandered off. He inched closer, straining to see in the dark, and was caught off-guard by movement to his left. The foal was shuffling towards him, her head cocked. She seemed to have none of the fear her elders exhibited around people. Newt stayed still, daring to make careful eye contact, and she came close enough for him to admire how beautiful she was. She was rail thin, although that seemed to be the norm for her species, and the black skin reflected the moonlight. Her wings brushed against her body, and were translucent where the light hit them.

“Hey, there,” he whispered. She bobbed her head at his voice, and her delicate head and wide white eyes made him realize what he would name her. “Sarita,” he said, barely audible. It just felt right to give her name to the creatures she’d helped him discover. She’d live on in his work, in this little thestral that picked at his feet in search for food, unafraid of his strange presence.

He came back to the thestrals every day for months. Some days they were gone, and each time he feared they had moved on forever. But always they returned, hindered in their travels by the foal having not learned to fly yet. He slowly made himself a part of their group. At first, he stayed back, sketching them, observing them, making notes about them. He watched them hunt the woodland creatures and, with their carnivorous nature in mind, started to leave them hunks of meat that he purchased by the pound from Muggle grocers. This won them over very quickly. They were regal creatures, but not timid by any means, and they began to tolerate his presence and even perk up when they saw him coming. The foal never had any inhibitions to begin with. She pranced around Newt, making him laugh, making her strange shrill noises until he gave her the best cut of the meat. The group was loyal, and, seeing the bond between Newt and the foal, they were quick to follow suit. He got to observe their habits, diets, social life, communications, and environment. He was entranced. He could spend hours in the same spot, watching the herd do nothing more interesting than crunch stray bones. He collected the hairs that fell from their tails and manes, and when the foal shed her deciduous fangs and began to grow in permanent ones, he got to catalog his first thestral tooth. Besides Sarita and her mother, there were two more females and two males, the males slightly smaller and sleeker than the bigger-hipped females. Despite the pampering Newt was giving them, they didn’t seem to gain any weight, although their skin became glossier, their wings smoother, and they had more energy.

Newt wouldn’t have dreamed that things could be better for him with the herd, but the thestrals were smart beyond what he assumed and seemed to want to give him something in exchange for his kindness. Sarita’s mother in particular wouldn’t leave him alone. After feeding, she bumped him with her beak, followed him around, and finally sank to her knees in front of him. He noted the odd behavior — perhaps she mistook him for an eligible male and it was a mating ritual, or maybe this was a thestral’s way of communicating friendship. When she continued to do it, he started to wonder if she meant to let her ride him. He touched the base of her neck and gripped her mane, and she rumbled her approval. Cautiously, he swung his leg over her and remained standing, but she sat patiently and waited for him to lower himself onto her back. When he was secure, she stood. His feet left the ground and he leaned forward, finding a better grip with both arms around her neck. She bumped his arm, a very human gesture of reassurance. When she crouched, he thought she was lowering him back to the ground, but just as he loosened his grip, she launched straight upwards. They spiraled out of the trees, going almost vertical. Newt barely held on, a rush of adrenaline making his head pound. The thestral shrieked, her voice loud and echoing on the scrubland, and her wings beat against the wind that roared in Newt’s ears. She took him around the forest, even swooped close enough to the village for someone to jump and point frantically at what must have looked to them to be a floating human being. Both of the males of the herd joined her flight, and as Newt adjusted to the feeling, he let the exhilaration take over. He felt better than he had since Sudan, better than he had in years. When they landed, he slid off the thestral and hugged her, giddy with excitement, happy tears flooding his eyes.

If there was one thing Newt had learned over the years, it was not to expect something good to last, particularly not when other people got themselves involved. He started to notice the thestrals getting skittish, and one day his protective charms had been broken. The next day, someone else had been feeding the herd. The thestrals had only a slight interest in Newt’s offering, and they were fighting over the bone of a pig that he had never brought them. The day after that, Newt found a whole flank of a cow set out for them, completely untouched. The group seemed afraid of it, and when Newt examined it, he found an all-purpose magical pest killer in the meat. He spent the night too worked up to sleep. Someone must have found the thestrals, or at least guessed by the disappearing food and perhaps sightings of Newt himself that there was something strange in the woods. If they were wizards, Newt feared the worst. Muggles would simply be scared off if they noticed anything unusual, even if they were able to glimpse the thestrals. But wizards had a long history of identifying and destroying anything that threatened their community, and Newt was now the only thing standing between them and the creatures he’d come to love.

He’d take them, he decided. He’d introduce him to his suitcase, give them an environment they’d be at home with. He’d have to relocate, maybe find them somewhere appropriately gloomy and barren in Siberia or the Alps. The rest of the night he spent Transfiguring his suitcase to accommodate the new area. A cluster of trees with a foggy stream that wound through it, and plenty of sky for them to stretch their wings. He felt better just doing something to improve the situation, and part of him was glad he wouldn’t have to say goodbye to his new little thestral family so soon. 

At dawn, he Apparated a little ways outside the forest, as he usually did. The lightness that lent him a spring in his step and a cheerful whistle as he walked was short-lived. As he approached, he saw a dark cloud of smoke billowing up behind the trees. A sick feeling started to develop in his stomach. 

Shouts were just audible over the crackle of an enormous fire. Newt broke into a run. The flaming trees came into view one by one, a ring of them, their trucks marked with X’s from which a magical white-hot flame poured. The thestral’s clearing was encased in the fire. He could see them in the cloud of smoke above the trees, darting in and out of view, screaming, a terrible sound he'd never heard them make.

“What are you doing?” Newt shouted, bearing down on the little group of people who were standing clear of the flame.

An anxious, thin-faced man sized up Newt’s crazed expression up and took a step back. “Nothing to see here, sir. Getting rid of something evil, that's all.”

“Evil?” Newt was speechless, or all the things he wanted to say were getting balled up and stuck in his throat.

“Rumors of thestrals in these parts,” a woman whispered to him. “Horses of death. Signs of the apocalypse, some say. At any rate, a serious breach of the Statute, and dangerous for our children to boot.”

He stumbled away from them, disbelief etched over his face. “Don’t be like that,” someone chided him. “They’re better off. And it’s good of the governor to have found them in the first place, we should be grateful they didn’t get to any of us first.”

Nothing he was thinking could be translated into words. His terror for his thestrals surpassed everything. He looked to the sky, trying to see how many of them had escaped already. Their shrieks and calls, all so distinct, sounded distant in the smoke and unfamiliar with their panic. He counted at least four, perhaps a fifth. Why didn’t they fly to safety? He watched them dive again and again back into the burning trees, emerging with singed wings, beating flames off their bodies. It hit him like a punch to the gut. Sarita couldn’t fly. They wouldn’t leave her.

He sprinted towards the clearing, Apparating mid-stride, blindly willing his way inside the ring of flame. He landed knee-deep in water. Sarita was only feet away, her white eyes stretched wide and rolling in fear. Her whole body trembled, and her breath was heavy from inhaling smoke.

“Sarita,” he called to her. She startled at his appearance, and shied away, her whole body primed to run. The flames were advancing down the bank, and as they moved, their magical heat evaporated the water and burned farther and farther. They had barely a puddle of safety left. Newt knelt in the icy remains of the pond and felt the world slow down to this moment. “Trust me,” he begged her, opening his suitcase. “I can help you.” He could save her. He could save this young creature, the product of people’s fear, a thestral trembling in the mud, a little girl crying herself to an endless sleep in his arms.

Sarita’s legs, thin as sticks, tripped over each other as she ran to Newt. She dropped just seconds away from him, her raw lungs and exhaustion overcoming her, and he helped her the last few feet into the suitcase as the fire snatched at her heels. He snapped the suitcase closed, and had barely enough space to turn on the spot.

The hasty Apparition dropped them on the wrong side of the forest, but away from danger nonetheless. Newt could see the crowd down the hill, still watching what they thought was the product of their slaughter. He turned his eyes to the sky and saw the remaining thestrals soaring away from the flames, and he didn’t think he was wrong to believe that their cries had turned to ones of relief. They would come back, no doubt, for their missing family member, but not until the danger had passed. Newt watched their dark, bony figures disappear on the horizon, and began to make his way home. Sarita would be safe with him, he would make sure of it. When she was ready to rejoin the world, he would find them all a home together. If the world was not ready to accept them, he could offer them the best he had: safety and his protection, the assurance that he would fight for them down to the last second, with his last breath.


End file.
